Wes nodded and gulped down the rest of his bottle. “I hate guys like that. Don’t worry. If you want, I'll kick his ass.” He flexed and kissed his biceps. “These guns haven’t lost their bullets.”
“It amazes me that we’re related.”
Wes pushed my head and I pulled a punch to his gut.
“I better head out. The girls are probably threatening to tie Kelly up and break out the cookies.”
I laughed and walked him to the door.
“I’m glad you're back. It’s nice being able to stop by like this.” Wes squeezed the doorframe, checking the sturdiness all while avoiding my gaze.
“Yeah,” I said, sniffing once before stuffing my hands deep in my pockets. I wouldn’t be here for long. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that. Not right now.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He held my gaze. “With the SOOK,” he added.
“Me too.”
Chapter 8
Let the music call you.
KIM
I wiggled deeper into the sheets. I would let myself have just a few more minutes. Practice could wait. Swimming could wait. Just for a little while longer. My eyes wouldn’t open anyway, so if they went on strike, I was at their mercy. My head rested comfortably on a pillow that must work part-time as a cloud, and the heavy down comforter smelled like fresh laundry and sunshine.
I went back under with a contended sigh.
The next time I woke up I was a little more concerned about where I was. My eyes shot open and blinked away the sleep rapidly. I frowned at a vaulted ceiling I’d never seen. My fingers splayed out to grip a majestic duvet that wasn’t mine.
“Curious,” I said.
I turned my head to the side and spotted a few pieces of furniture. Too homey for a hotel, but lacking in personal touches. Guest room? It was lovely and comfortable, but it was still distressing not knowing where I was. I fought sleep to recall the events of the night before. My phone sat on the bedside table. I picked it up and found it charging. Next to that sat a plate of delectable looking scrambled eggs, with toast and orange juice.
I unplugged my phone and squinted at it until the screen came into focus. It was almost ten in the morning; much later than my usual wake time of five a.m.
I had one text.
“Eat the food. Drink the juice.” It was Devlin.
I sat up in bed with a racing heart. Wait, wait. Was I at Devlin’s house? The Devil of the Opera himself? Cloudy bits of nonsense started to return to me … the solo … Roddy … the champagne … ugh.
My hands trembled as I navigated to the group message with my parents to search for clues and let them know I was alive. I couldn’t imagine what they thought. To my immense relief, I saw that they had sent a goodnight text.
“Everything is good at home. Rest up. Call us later tomorrow after you talk to the Maestro.” They knew I was with Devlin. They were okay with it?
More hazy memories floated back in bits and pieces. Being carried away. Hearing my parents discuss a plan. Doc Thurston with a stethoscope checking my heart and shining a light in my eyes. Gosh, I had been so out of it.
I tossed my phone aside and scrubbed my face awake. Had Devlin carried me out? Imagining the hulking conductor gently carry me away sent a thrill through me. Next to me, the curtains were drawn on a large window. I looked down to discover I was in a set of comfortable cotton pajamas over the bra and underwear from last night. I remembered changing now, too. I let loose a long sigh and calmed myself down.
My stomach rumbled, and after making use of the attached bathroom, I dug into breakfast with no qualms. Maybe it was because I had grown accustomed to most of my choices being made for me. Maybe it was because I’d woken up in far worse rooms without any clue as to where I was. And this was certainly better than a hospital bed. Or maybe it was just knowing that Devlin was here. The Devil of the Symphony clearly cared if I could perform.
I felt a thousand times better with food in my stomach. My head still pounded, but I didn’t feel as awful as I thought I might today. I warred with myself over what to do next. I would have to tell Devlin my decision sooner or later, and that was a weight on my chest I couldn’t shake. First, I needed to find him.
Still in my pajamas, I crept to the door and cracked it open. Soft notes of a piano greeted my ears, far away but alluring. The melody was unfamiliar. It was gentle and flowing like a trickling stream, and it sent goosebumps down my arms. The music compelled me to walk down a hallway that ended with a banister overlooking a large open space. I was on an upper level. Below was a luxurious living room with expansive windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Tall pines lined the property outside, but beyond that, a heavy fog and overcast sky blocked any further views. It gave the chilling effect of being in a dream where there was no world outside the immediate area of this house. The drifting, seductive notes only added to the surrealness of this whole situation.
The haze of sleep still clouded my brain. I debated staying there until somebody found me, but the melody was too captivating. It floated up from a wrapping staircase off to my left. I followed the notes down, wondering on some level if I was still asleep. Once I reached the main level, I caught a glimpse of a gleaming gourmet kitchen branching off behind the stairs. To the right, a massive dining room bled into the living room I had just been looking down upon.
The music was closer, but still came from another floor below. I would need to descend farther into the foreign house.
A door tucked away past the modern chef’s kitchen seemed to be the source of the music. When I pushed it open, it led to yet another set of stairs leading straight down. These stairs were not plush carpet like the set I had already descended; they were wooden and narrow. The air was cool and damp and smelled faintly of earth. My feet carried me forward before I could fully process how odd this all was. Or maybe I understood the weirdness, but I couldn’t stop now.
My only goal was to get closer. I had to find the source of that song. The melody had transformed, coaxing me onward with a staccato beat. Each step seemed to fall in time with the short, loud notes. Cement cooled my feet when I reached the bottom.
Dim light illuminated a long hallway that stretched farther than it had seemed when I’d first descended. The few side doors branching off were locked—I checked. I was being led, called by something that tugged on my chest. Rational thought remained upstairs; now I was driven solely by instinct. Maybe I should have been scared, but I simply wasn’t.
The hall ended with a heavy metal door. Just on the other side, the music rang clearly. I went in.
It was unlike anything I’d ever seen, greater than any rehearsal space. Cavernous and huge. Guitars hung in neat lines along the walls. The ceiling and any unoccupied wall space were covered sporadically in red foam soundproofing panels. A door off to the side looked like it led to some sort of recording booth. Various instruments, some I recognized and some exotic and foreign, were showcased around the room. Thick Turkish rugs lined the floor, stacked and frayed in some spots. It was like a recording studio and rehearsal space made a glorious love child. It was the wet dream of every musician, ever.
In the center of the room, slightly raised on a platform, was a grand piano more beautiful than anything I’d never seen. Glistening black and sleek.